


Si Scealta

by Mystical_Magician



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical_Magician/pseuds/Mystical_Magician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after defeating Grindelwald, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, consumed by guilt and grief, falls into a coma. Following the advice of a mysterious woman, Minerva McGonagall travels through Faerieland, in search of his soul as his body lies dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Fado Fado

**Author's Note:**

> Garinion means granddaughter, and the title of the prologue, fado fado, means once upon a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Si Scealta is Gaelic for fairytale and seanamhair means grandmother. In between quotes are from A Little Princess as well.

_“…I have short black hair and green eyes; besides which, I am a thin child and not fair in the least. I am one of the ugliest children I ever saw. She is beginning by telling a story.”_

_She was mistaken, however, in thinking she was an ugly child. She was not in the least like Isobel Grange, who had been the beauty of the regiment, but she had an odd charm of her own. She was a slim, supple creature, rather tall for her age, and had an intense, attractive little face. Her hair was heavy and quite black and only curled at the tips; her eyes were greenish gray, it is true, but they were big, wonderful eyes with long, black lashes…._  
 _-Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess_

 

As a child Minerva McGonagall ran wild over the moors and fields of heather and broom in the Scottish Highlands. Fearless, she climbed cliff and tree alike, reading, napping, learning, and wandering the twists and turns of her imagination. Dark-haired and dark-eyed with a fierce, stubborn spirit, she might have been a girl of the Celtic tribes, in those times past when Scotland had been Alba. She was a study in contrasts, a logical sensibility mixed with an open-minded faith in the existence of Faerie. It was an attitude she had inherited from her grandmother. 

Many residents of the small town in which she lived, most notably the superstitious, suspected the blood of the _Daoine Sidhe_ , the Fairy Host, ran through her veins. They believed that her nature was so fae as to be otherworldly, and they kept their distance. 

The entire McGonagall family, Minerva, her parents, and especially her grandmother, were treated with caution. Minerva knew her grandmother, _seanamhair_ Findabhair, her mother’s mother, was a fairy doctress. She was too young to understand exactly what that meant, but she watched silently as individuals, townsfolk, awkwardly and secretively came to her _seanamhair_ for help. Poultices, herbs, charms, wisdom, Minerva soaked it in, watching in her strange, solemn way. 

Her parents spent most days in town half an hour away, leaving her in her seanamhair’s care. Malcolm McGonagall owned a small grocery store, and Shannon worked as a nurse at the small, rural hospital. It was a lonely existence at times, being an only child and lacking friends, but Minerva didn’t let it bother her. She developed the independence McGonagalls were known for, and anyway, she had not yet learned to tolerate those who struck her as idiots. 

Minerva had always been a precocious child. 

Much as she loved her freedom in the Highlands, explorations with and without her seanamhair, Minerva loved evenings best, when the sky grew dark and her parents were home. Sitting in front of the fireplace, her mother and father would tell stories of mortal dealings with the land of Faerie, of quests and tithes and lovers. On special occasions her _seanamhair_ would speak, recounting a story of her own experience with the _Sidhe_ , each one new and breathtaking. 

And so Minerva grew, learning of the magic in and around the human world, until she turned eleven and learned of an entirely different sort of magic. She wished her _seanamhair_ were still alive to see it. Findabhair had passed away in her sleep when Minerva was seven. 

Had anyone in the Wizarding World cared enough to pay attention, they might have been surprised by how quickly the Muggle parents and their witch daughter adapted. 

 

 _ **“I love your queer eyes,” said Ermengarde, looking into them with affectionate admiration. “They always look as if they saw such a long way. I love them – and I love them to be green – though they look black generally."**_

_**“They are cat’s eyes,” laughed Sara; “but I can’t see in the dark with them – because I have tried, and I couldn’t – I wish I could.”** _

 

In Minerva McGonagall’s third year at Hogwarts she saved her best friend, Poppy, from stepping into a fairy ring. They had been walking along the edge of the Forbidden Forest when her sharp eyes had caught sight of the circle of toadstools and she abruptly yanked the Ravenclaw away. 

“What?” Poppy asked, giving her a strange look. 

The truth was on the tip of her tongue. But she had so few friends, and she remembered the mocking laughter when she had first arrived, new to the Wizarding World. Instead, she shrugged and smiled half-heartedly, leading the girl in a new direction without looking back. 

“I find it strange how close-minded the Wizarding World can be,” Minerva mused later that night. “With magic nearly anything is possible. And yet, anything that hasn’t been discovered or proven simply doesn’t exist. As if, because they have the gift of magic, they know everything about it.” 

Professor Dumbledore surveyed his unique Gryffindor student over his half-moon glasses, firelight highlighting his auburn hair. “You are very wise. But what is it that has you so pensive this evening, Miss McGonagall?” he asked fondly. 

“I watch them laugh at the Muggle students from the country, the ones who still believe in the old ways and the Good Neighbors. They scorn them for their foolish, Muggle superstitions until they hide those beliefs. They hide it so well that it is forgotten, and once forgotten becomes disbelief.” There was pain in her voice, at the loss of faith and the dimming of dreams. 

“It is a shame. I am not sure what I believe or disbelieve,” Dumbledore said with uncharacteristic honesty, “but I would never profess to beat down the beliefs of others.” He hesitated before asking, “And you?” 

Her lips curled into a helpless half-smile, and she studied him with her dark eyes, but she made no reply. Not yet. 

 

_**She drew her breath in so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut her lips and held them tightly closed, as if she was determined either to do or not to do something. Ermengarde had an idea that if she had been like any other little girl, she might have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying. But she did not.** _

 

In Minerva’s seventh year she spent her first Christmas holiday at the castle. It was not a happy Christmas. Her father had been enlisted to fight in the war against Hitler and the Axis Powers, she wasn’t sure where. Although word had not yet reached her, she knew in her soul that he was dead. Her mother had followed as a nurse, and a week ago had been killed by a stray bomb. She’d broken down only once after receiving the news, alone at night in her Head Girl’s chambers. 

Professor Dumbledore came upon her well after curfew in the middle of an empty corridor. It was the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. The faint strains of unearthly music reached her ears. She had never been able to see the fairies as her grandmother could, but every solstice she had heard them. It was the sound of fairy revelry, and never before had she been so tempted to follow. To lose herself and never come back. 

Dumbledore watched his student for a moment from the shadows of the dark hallway. She sat on a windowsill hugging her knees to her chest and leaning her forehead against the pane of glass. Her breath fogged the window and the light of the full moon highlighted her sharp features and spilled over her long black hair. She must have been freezing in her thin school uniform, but she showed no sign of feeling the cold. 

She was heartbreakingly beautiful. 

“Miss McGonagall,” the Transfiguration Professor said softly as he came to stand beside her. 

Minerva didn’t jump at his sudden appearance, and her gaze never wavered from the forest. 

“What are you doing out so late?” he continued when it became apparent that she wouldn’t speak. 

“Listening,” she murmured. 

“To what, my dear?” Dumbledore asked. 

“The midwinter revels.” She turned her head so that her eerie green eyes regarded his warm, concerned blue, and softly sang: 

_“Come away, O human child!_   
_To the waters and the wild_   
_With a faery, hand in hand,_   
_For the world’s more full of weeping than_   
_you can understand”_

Underneath the song Dumbledore imagined he could almost hear an unearthly melody echoing in the silent air. 

“Minerva,” he said, and the rare use of her first name seemed to call her back from wherever her mind had been. “Come, and join me for a mug of hot cocoa.” Albus did not understand what was happening, but he felt that, should he leave her be, she might disappear forever from his life, from this world. 

Minerva regarded his outstretched hand for a long moment. At last she took it, sliding off her seat to stand before the auburn-haired wizard. “Thank you, Professor,” she said quietly, and with one last glance across the bare snow-covered grounds, Minerva turned away to follow him wherever he would lead.


	2. The Division of the Body and Soul

_Who are they? “Fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost,” say the peasantry. “The gods of the earth,” says the Book of Armagh. “The gods of pagan Ireland,” say the Irish antiquarians, “the Tuatha De Danan, who, when no longer worshiped and fed with offerings, dwindled away in the popular imagination, and now are only a few spans high.”_   
_-Irish Fairy & Folk Tales, W.B. Yeats_

 

_Fairytales don’t always have a happy ending, do they?_  
 _And I foresee the dark ahead_  
 _-“Big Girls Don’t Cry,” Fergie_

 

Minerva sat hunched over a stack of parchments and forms, her quill scrawling out information, pausing its scratching every once in a while as she considered her options. She sighed, leaning back in her chair at last and stretching her aching back. No longer struggling desperately to organize and complete the forms needed to keep Hogwarts running, she invariably thought of why she needed to do it. Her throat ached as she swallowed past a lump brought on by suppressed tears. 

Albus was in St. Mungo’s. Had been for nearly a fortnight, since Septimus had found him. He was in a coma, and the Healers were helpless to know why. All they could do was keep him comfortable and hope he came out of it soon. 

A choked laugh escaped her as she recalled the reactions of those who had seen him before the Healers had arrived, completely hysterical and shouting about Dementors. _Idiot purebloods_ , she thought, perhaps unkindly. Coma had been her first guess. It came of having had a Muggle nurse for a mother, perhaps. 

Everything was a mess now. It helped that Albus had been so up to date on papers that needed his signature, but July deadlines were quickly approaching, and then August would arrive soon enough. To make matters worse, no one could get hold of the Deputy, who had just retired, and no one knew who Dumbledore had meant to replace him with. As one of the few professors who spent the majority of the summer in the castle, and the one who knew the Headmaster best, Minerva had taken over, and the others had done their best to assist. Nevertheless, there had been times where she needed to search his office for the missing files. 

What concerned her most was the inability to find the Book of Names. The letters to incoming students needed to be sent out in a month, and only two people knew where it was and how to use it were incapacitated or absent. Not even the portraits could help her. 

Minerva pushed back her chair and stood, wincing as she tried to loosen the stiff muscles in her neck. She had been at this for part of the morning and most of the afternoon, and she simply couldn’t stand to look at another parchment without screaming. It was about time she stopped by to see Albus anyway, and getting beyond the anti-Apparition wards would give her a chance to stretch her legs. 

The heat swelled around her the moment she stepped outside of the empty stone castle, and Minerva was grateful for the slight breeze that tugged at her thin summer robes. The walk to the gates was peaceful, the world around her quiet with the lazy indolence of the summer months. Listening to the rustle of the trees and birdsong, she might have fooled herself into thinking that everything was fine. 

Double checking that the gate had closed behind her, the young witch turned on the spot as she pictured the St. Mungo’s lobby. 

Minerva paid no attention to the greeting witch and the people milling around. She simply swept by without a glance in what Albus had called Auror-form. He lay in a private room, rife with protections as befitted a wizard of his stature and popularity. Minerva submitted to the safety precautions without complaint, quite used to them by now. A few of the security personnel recognized and greeted her. She nodded in return. Not a chatty person by nature, she spoke even less on occasions such as this. 

The room Minerva stepped into was larger than most hospital rooms, though the cards, flowers, and candy stocked on all available surfaces and pushed against the walls made it seem smaller than it actually was. She knew that even more gifts had been stored in at least one other unused room, and felt rather sympathetic for the staff who had to sort through everything. 

It might even become her job soon, Minerva realized with a resigned sigh. But she could put up with it if that’s what it took. Dumbledore would be moved to Hogwarts, as there was nothing else St. Mungo’s could do to help him. Poppy Pomfrey, though young, had the training to care for the aged wizard, and it was to be hoped that familiar surroundings would somehow help him. 

“Hello again Albus,” she whispered as she took a seat next to the bed. Her throat ached as it usually did; he seemed only to be sleeping. His facial features looked strange without his half-moon spectacles, but the rise and fall of his chest was reassuring. Sunlight spilled over the still form, warming the auburn-turned-gray hair that spread over the pillow, as well as his growing beard. 

Minerva took his weathered hand in hers and squeezed lightly, hoping for a response she never received. “Wake up,” she pleaded quietly, but he never did anymore. “Please,” she said and bowed her head, keeping a silent vigil. Minerva did not know how long she sat, lost in thought, when she realized there was another presence in the room. How she knew was a mystery, as she heard nothing, but it might have been a foreign feeling resonating in the air. Regardless, she reached slowly for her wand. 

The moment her fingers touched the wood she leapt to her feet and spun around. Something flashed in her eyes (perfection? light?) and she blinked away temporary blindness. 

A woman stood before her; skin flawless, pale to the point of whiteness but never sickly; hands and waist dainty, fingers long and slender; hair a waterfall the black of a raven’s wing; long lashes framing deep blue eyes that glowed with age and wisdom. The woman’s gown was strange, of a style that was several centuries old, and the colors shifted so that Minerva could not tell what color it truly was. 

Minerva, while hardly vain, keenly felt her shortcomings. 

“Greetings to you, Minerva Caitriona McGonagall,” the stranger said in a melodic voice. 

“Who are you?” Minerva queried, voice not shaking through great force of will. “Why are you here?” 

The faery-woman – what else could she be? – laughed, her laughter like the tinkling of bells, and she moved with an unearthly grace, stopping just short of Minerva’s outstretched wand. “I am Rhiannon of the moon,” she said. “My blood, though much diluted, runs through your veins.” 

Minerva gazed at her in astonishment. This was one of the Celtic goddesses, first among the Tuatha de Danaan. 

“Through the women in your family, you are my many times great-granddaughter,” she continued, and then looked beyond her to the wizard lying in the bed. 

Minerva’s breath caught in her throat as a thought occurred to her. “Can you heal him?” Hope fluttered in her chest, and then died at the sorrowful expression. 

“However you, _Garinion_ , may be able to save him,” she said. “His soul, tormented and weighted with sorrow, has lost himself in Faerieland. If you can find him within a week and a day, then he shall live. If you fail, his body will die as the sun sets.” 

She furrowed her brow, pondering the significance of the deadline. “The summer solstice.” 

Rhiannon inclined her head. 

“But why me?” Minerva asked, feeling inadequate when faced with the enormity of the task. “Surely there is someone more qualified.” 

The faery-woman shook her head. “Considering your grandmother and your childhood, there are few mortals so prepared for such a quest.

“But that is only a very small part of a reason. Your future and his are tied together. You are bound – how, none can yet tell – but that is your wyrd.” 

What her ancestor said was true. Minerva recalled how well she and Albus had gotten along, even as student and teacher. They felt at ease with each other, as if each had known the other all their life. Recently, until the coma, they had almost seemed to know what the other was thinking. A bond of strong friendship, then, Minerva assumed. He was her true-friend. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asked at last. However altruistic a faery’s offer seemed, _seanamhair_ Findabhair had taught her that they always had a reason for what they did. It was not that they were bad or evil, though some could be. It was simply their nature. They were fickle creatures, assured that they were, in a very real way, more important than mere mortals. Dreams sprang forth from Faerieland, and it was the responsibility of mortals to protect it. Always, it had been a mortal to save Faerieland. 

Too, faeries could not relate to humans. While in some ways more fragile than mortals, they did not truly understand death, nor the true depths of suffering. It was why they were thought of as fickle, even arrogant at times. Perhaps her great-grandmother truly did want to help, but she likely had her own motives as well. 

“Does it matter?” Rhiannon asked patiently. 

Minerva looked upon Albus’ comatose form once again. “No.” It didn’t matter. She couldn’t picture life without him. She would do whatever it took to save him. “What must I do?” 

“Prepare yourself. Pack a bag, and at sunrise tomorrow morning walk into the forest. Your sacrifice is this: you must leave your wand behind.” 

“Because of the rowan?” Minerva asked, swallowing hard. Her wand was made from the rowan tree. A powerful wood, it warded against faeries and their mischief. 

“And your type of magic is not only uncomfortable, it acts as a beacon for all _sidhe_. It is one of the reasons your wizards and witches do not enter Faerieland,” Rhiannon replied. She placed her hand upon Minerva’s cheek. “Good fortune, _Garinion_.” 

Her skin tingled where her ancestor touched, and her eyes involuntarily closed as her awareness blurred and faded away. She tried to say “thank you” but it was a struggle to even speak. 

When her eyes opened at last, Minerva found that she was slumped in her chair, as if she had fallen asleep. She was alone but for Albus. 

Anyone else would have thought the visitation a dream, but Minerva knew better. 

“I’ll find you, Albus,” she promised, voice strong as it pierced the heavy silence. 

 

The moment she returned to Hogwarts, Minerva’s mind was busy planning her absence. She needed to let the remaining staff know that she would be gone for a week. Perhaps she could claim a family emergency. She was fairly sure only Albus knew she had no family left. It shouldn’t be too much of a disaster, as the remaining paperwork could keep for a week or so. 

Her room quickly became something of a mess. It had been a few years since she had left the Aurors for a teaching position, and her supplies from her former duty in the field had been a bit difficult to locate. Still, Minerva was confident she remembered her training. 

Her bag was standard field-Auror issue during the war. Made of a sturdy brown material, the inside was much larger than the outside, lightweight charms ensured it would not grow too heavy, and runes picked out in Demiguise hair ensured that it would be overlooked by enemies and civilians. 

Minerva paused in her packing, lost in thought, wondering at her reasons for choosing to become an Auror. She had not been so idealistic or naïve as to believe it her solemn duty to combat the forces of evil that threatened, had she? They needed to be stopped, of course, but her individual actions would probably not have changed the course of the war. 

Was it revenge? A way to get back at those who had taken both mother and father from her? There was anger, certainly, but not the cold rage she thought denoted a thirst for vengeance. 

Had she wished to complete the work of her parents, in a way? 

Had it been a combination of those thoughts, or something else altogether? 

Whatever her reasons, Minerva believed she had done the right thing when she joined the Aurors right out of school. Despite her formidable intelligence and ability to learn quickly, she likely would have been stationed in the UK with the other new Aurors to “keep the peace” had she not been an unregistered Animagus. Animagi were invaluable in reconnaissance and gathering intelligence, Minerva’s form doubly so. For one, there were very few places a cat would seem out of place in. Their night vision was excellent and their movements were near silent. 

A little over a month later, following intense daily training, she had been assigned to a team in the field. All of her teammates were older than her and had years more experience, but she had earned their respect. It was neither simple nor easy, but it hadn’t taken long to become used to the lifestyle – after all, she had grown up in the Scottish Highlands – and by the end of the war Minerva could hold her own with the best of them. The team had been somewhere in Poland when news of the defeat of Grindelwald had reached them. 

The Aurors had been rounding up the last of the Knights of Walpurgis when she had received an invitation from the new Headmaster, Dumbledore, to become the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts. The war was over and they didn’t truly need her any longer. In addition, a career as a professor would suit her better, Minerva thought. Her purpose had changed. 

And so, she had retired from the Aurors after only a few years, her name surprisingly well-known for such a short period with them, and hadn’t looked back. 

In spite of a few bumps in the beginning, Minerva found she loved teaching, and a few Auror tricks kept the students quiet and respectful at least. 

Not it was time to see whether lessons in the field had stuck. 

Food enough for a week; a flask that never ran out of water; two extra sets of clothes; a first-aid kit; rope. Minerva paused at the next item. A knife of steel. The touch of cold iron was painful – even deadly – to the sidhe. Did she dare to risk bringing such a blade within the realm of Faerie? Surely if she wrapped it in cloth, placed it in some sort of container, and buried it among her clothes it would not be sensed. And she would only draw it in an emergency. Would it be allowed? Or would it cause her to fail? 

Minerva bit her lip. She also had a copper knife that had belonged to her grandmother. Findabhair had used it as in her duties as a fairy doctress. 

Minerva hesitated, torn. Seanamhair, _what should I do?_

She made her decision. She probably wouldn’t draw it in any case. 

Her eyes darted around her quarters, looking for anything she had forgotten. At last she stuck a book of matches in the pocket of her heavy, dark green cloak and folded it on top. She knew from experience how chilly the weather could become at night, and the cloak could double as a blanket. In any case, who knew what the weather would be like in any part of Faerieland? 

At last Minerva was satisfied with her preparations and headed for bed. She would need a good night’s sleep. 

A part of her chafed to be off immediately, searching for her closes friend. Logic, however, held that side of her in check. She would not want to wander the Forbidden Forest at night; the thought was terrifying. And Faerie was at least as dangerous and even less familiar. There were plenty of stories Minerva knew of wandering the wilderness at night, and few ended happily. 

Not to mention, she would need her rest. She would do neither of them any good if she was exhausted. 

Minerva changed quickly into her pajamas before pausing by her bedside table and gently picking up the picture that stood there. Her eyes traced the familiar features, a happy smile and twinkling blue eyes. It had been so rare to see Albus without either; now it was all too common. 

Minerva had seen hints of a great sorrow within him. Impossible to know him as well as she did, and not. But he masked the troubling emotions so well that at times she wondered if she had imagined it. Albus had made it quite clear, in his own way, that he would not, could not, speak of it, and she had never dared to bring it up. 

Would things be different now if she had? Or would he have simply pushed her away, shut her out, until she broke away painfully from him in a fit of rage? Minerva was aware of her faults, and knew very well that she had a temper. There was no telling what might have happened had she forced the issue. 

It was no use thinking about ‘what ifs’. She couldn’t afford distractions. She would focus on finding Albus’ soul, believe that she could do it, and maybe that would make it a reality. 

Minerva turned off the lights, crawled into bed, and eventually fell asleep to memories of her childhood with her _seanamhair_. 

 

In the gray light before dawn a house elf served Minerva a large breakfast, her last meal before she set out on her quest. She forced herself to eat despite a lack of appetite. She would need the energy. 

When she finished at last she stood, composed as ever in spite of the flurry of butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in her stomach. 

She was dressed in an old, comfortable pair of faded jeans, a forest green shirt with sleeves that ended halfway down her forearms, and comfortable hiking boots. She had decided to plait her long, black hair, so that it was kept out of her face and would not get too tangled along her journey. She would not need to waste time fussing with it, as she doubted there would be much time for grooming. 

At last she shouldered her satchel and reluctantly placed her wand on her bedside table. Minerva’s apprehension doubled at the simple act and she fought the urge to grab it again. What was wrong with her? Minerva had grown up without a wand or witchcraft, and had felt completely safe. Had she spent so much time in the Wizarding World that she had become dependent on her wand? That she could not go anywhere without it? 

Minerva frowned and deliberately turned away. She was a Muggleborn, and proud of her heritage. She would walk easily in both worlds. 

Above all, she was a McGonagall. She was not dependent upon any one or thing. 

It was a short walk from her rooms to the Entrance Hall, and it was too early for anyone else to be up, so she was not questioned. 

_This might be the last time I see the castle_ , she thought as she pushed open the doors. _Fairytales favor tragedies just as much as they favor happy endings._

But Minerva did not look back as she crossed the mist-covered lawn. 

“Follow the fire’s path,” a familiar echoing voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere. The last time Minerva would hear from her goddess ancestor. 

The sun flashed over the horizon as the woman entered the forest.


End file.
